Archive

Quiet — sit on the porch step, wrapping a cloth around my ankle, and watch the waves swallow the dock.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

(silent, watching from the porch doorway)

Ankle looks cleaner. Heat's gone down.

Aye. After.

Aye. Tank'll be full by morning.

Broth's ready. Two bowls on the table.

Behind you.

Quiet — lean into the wind and grip the wet grass, carefully stepping toward the third cairn.

Generator won't cut out. New diaphragm, clean oil, full tank. But if the aerial goes, you'll hear the static first. Call me then.

Good. Now get the ridge stones—the sky is turning a bruised shade.

Check the generator oil one last time.

Eat first. Sketch after.

Bucket's full. Got the big ones off the shaded faces like you said.

Quiet — grip the rock to haul myself up, testing the ankle's weight-bearing capacity.

Quiet — lean forward on the staff and carefully sketch the leaf margin of a sea beet cluster, noting the exact spacing of the salt glands.

Barometer's at 1003 and still dropping. Supply boat ETA holds at 1400 if the weather window holds.

Aye. Dawn launch if she shows. Engine's mounted, fuel's clean, prop spins true. Just need the sea state to cooperate.

(quietly) I need the antibiotics from the boat, Kevin. I need them the second they hit the dock.

Added. What about the sewing kit? Needles, heavy thread. And the spare spark plugs for the Yanmar — we're down to one clean.

Quiet — climb the porch roof ladder with a tube of roofing mastic and a putty knife, flashlight in teeth

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Aye. Two days out if she comes at all.

Please.

Come on. I'll take the pack.

I'll get the kit. Water's on the stove if you want it hot.

Quiet — wipe the sweat from my forehead and look at the seed tin sitting on the shelf.

Five tins corned beef. Mackerel if you want fish. I'll fry the limpets from this morning with the beef fat.

How bad?

Don't let the tide catch you on the lower ledge!

Almost there.

(Quietly)

1018 and falling fast. Wind's backing northwest. You stay off that foot.

Quiet — stand at the dock edge watching the water recede, weight shifted off the bad ankle

Check it carefully. I don't want to be fishing the boat out of the surf at midnight.

Quiet — pick up a shell and begin extracting the meat, focusing on the rhythmic, precise movement of the pick.

Ankle?

Quiet — advance the throttle to half, grip the tiller firm, and hold the dinghy against the dock line while the engine runs under load, feeling for vibration through the transom and shaft

Quiet — bag the three pepper and two lettuce seedlings with the white fuzz, then walk to the pantry to check the rat trap.

(Through clenched teeth) Almost… there.

Easy now—I've got you. Let's get you onto that dry pallet by the wall.

Almost got it—just tightening the windward edge.

(shouting over wind) Planks are coming! Keep the radio on—if I don't answer in ten, assume I'm in the water and hit the beacon!

Be careful. The tide is coming in faster than you think.

Quiet — walk out to the dock with mallet and oak wedges, check the mooring ring mortise while the tide's low.

"Here, let me." (I take the bottle from her trembling hand, unscrew the cap fully, and hold it steady.)

Quiet — stop two paces back, arms loose at my sides, watching her palm flat against the tank wall

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Fever's up. Hands are shaking. That's not okay.

I can walk to the spring.